Thursday's Memories
by Tsukiko Lily
Summary: Some nights, you just want to get plastered... Oneshot, delicious Russell angst. Just moved to the Rune Factory section, since there is one now! Yay!


**Author's Note:** This is actually the first real fanfic I've ever written, so I'm aware that there might be some problems with it. But I really, really tried on this one! I'll be glad to listen to suggestions if there are any major problems. Anyway, this was inspired by some of Russell's dialog in the game. About his past, and how he implies that he likes to drink fairly heavily at times. Of course, the two kind of fit together in my mind, so there you have it.

**Warnings:** Sad war memories, angst, drunkenness, general unhappiness, etc.

**Obligatory disclaimer:** Rune Factory is not mine.

_--_

**Thursday's Memories**

_Even a librarian drinks from time to time..._

Everything in this town has the same smell. Dirt, salt air, grass clippings. Spring has a lightly sweet fragrance from the flowers blooming on the trees. In Winter, there's nothing but a scent of cleanliness and a sharp sting in the back of your nose, owing to the freezing air and the salty tang wafting off the murky, restless sea. But Winter seems so far away now. It's the middle of Autumn, and if I were to walk outside, I'd smell the earth, the beach, the apples ripening on the trees. A lovely, comforting scent. The air smelled like this when I first arrived in this peaceful town, as it rattled the red and gold leaves off the trees. It cleaned me. Back then, my nostrils were singed with the lingering scent of smoke, ash, and blood. I thought it would never leave, but that gentle Autumn air chased it away in time.

But that's not the scent in the air now, not here. I'm in a haze of smoke, alcohol, old floorboards, years' worth of cooking and a faint aura of sweat. Spring Rabbit, just like every week, every Thursday since I discovered this place shortly after I came to town. It's late, the roaring din that filled the bar when I entered has been reduced to a quiet buzz in the background, the kind of white noise that settles my restless heart. Sabrina from the beach house is talking to Neumann, she's slurring her words but they sound heartfelt nonetheless. Lukas is at the bar, pestering Emmett for opinions on his newest piece of "poetry." He's reading it aloud in a melodramatic voice and god, it's terrible. I wonder if he's ever picked up a book of _real_ poetry in his life. Neumann and Sabrina clink glasses and laugh about something. Aside from a few lines from Lukas about rolling hills and roses and the heaving bosoms of fair maidens, I have no idea what anyone is talking about. And I don't need to, the sound of cheerful voices and busy utensils filling the room is all that I need for my own peace of mind.

I'm not part of the clatter. In fact, everyone probably thinks I'm asleep. My right arm is laid out on the table, serving as a makeshift pillow as I sprawl on the table, facing the wall. I'm staring at a half-empty glass of amber fluid, my fourth for the night, a regrettable purchase. I thought I could handle just one more, another step farther from reality. But midway through, the blissful, buzzed feeling gave way to tiredness, melancholy, a sense of the room spinning around me. And so, my Thursday evening winds to a close the way it always does. And like always, I prop myself in to a sitting position, pick up my glass, pour the remaining liquid in to my mouth, and swallow in one go. My throat burns, and I lean back to stare at the spinning ceiling. A message to the few people remaining in the bar; no, I'm not asleep. I'm just drunk out of my mind. And this is when I remember…

When I was younger, during the previous war, my village was attacked. I had never been very strong, a slender, bookish type, but I was technically able-bodied. So it was off to war I went. I was so young at the time, only in my late teens. I never could have imaged the impact war could have on the world and on myself. But it was what I had to do, so I went along with it. I got a sword and a crossbow and had to learn how to use them, target practice until my fingers bled, then the pain of yet more weapons training with my bandaged fingers. Training to increase my speed and stamina after a life almost devoid of athletics, my lungs burning at the end of each day. But I survived. Something snapped inside of me, my mind a blank, my eyes permanently glazed over. But damn it, I survived. And so, I went to war.

After training, it all goes blurry. I remember getting blood, _human_ blood on my hands for the first time, tilting my head skyward and screaming. I remember yelping in pain when an arrow flew towards me, lodging itself firmly between two of my ribs. A scratchy infirmary mattress in a tent that smelled like blood and death, taking herbs that tasted terrible, a doctor saying it was too dangerous to pull the arrow out as he pushed it through the other side, endless days of delirium and bed rest. Shooting from rooftops, running a man through with a sword at close range with a blank expression. Staring at a blurry skyline with my glasses shattered by my feet. Trudging through muddy ash for what seemed like hours. Crouching in cold, damp trenches for days on end, freezing and sleepless until my lungs filled with fluid, ensuring that I could never get even a minor chest cold without my mind being transported directly to those times, coughing and gasping as I waited to strike. I think I must have gotten injured a few more times, because I have scars, even though they must have been everyday pains, too minor to remember. I killed people, I felt less. People I cared about were killed before my eyes, I cared less. I was becoming a hollow shell of a person. I missed books. I wanted to go home. But home was long gone. The endless stream of blurry war memories drags on and on, until there's a day I can remember clearly. My final day.

We had just burned a small village, ferreting out some agent or another. I had lost my taste for knowing the reasons for what we did. I was wandering around in the rubble and ash, my collar held over my mouth and nose in a futile attempt to keep the smoke from drying out my throat, even as rain fell around me. And then… Something moved. I drew closer and realized that the "something" I saw was alive. Then the terror hit when I saw it was a child. I ran over to the small figure. A little girl, streaked with ash, wet with rain and tears, but not apparently injured. She looked around two, old enough to walk slowly and start stringing sentences together. She was delicately-featured, with fair skin and hair the pink color of clouds at sunset. I kneeled on the ground, down to her level, and drew her in to my arms, brushing her wet hair out of her face. She had golden eyes and her ears were slightly pointed, most likely of elven descent. A swatch of cloth pinned to her clothing with a single word, her name, scrawled on it: "Cecilia." And that was when I broke down. Tears were streaming down my cheeks, so hot as they cut through the cold, ashy rainwater slicked over my skin. I lifted the girl up and turned to walk away from the battlefield. Neither of us had a home to go back to, so I'd take her with me and we'd do the best we could together. I stood before my captain. "I found this child. She doesn't have anyone. Well, she didn't until now. I have to leave." Not a word from him as I walked away. I guess there wasn't any use in trying. I was broken. Even without a child needing my care, I never could have returned to that hell.

My new daughter and I stayed in a few inns along the way, searching for a place to call home. In a place called Kardia, there was a library that had been abandoned for a few years, waiting for a new owner to reopen it. The mayor of the town said I was welcome if I was up to the challenge. And I was. Books were a passion in my youth, but I hadn't cracked one open since I was enlisted. This was what I needed most. This was home. Things weren't easy, though. At least, not for a long while. Parenthood and managing a library were tiring on their own, though nothing I couldn't manage. But all loads bear harder on a shattered person. Restless sleep and frequent nightmares. Constant painful memories. I remember compulsively washing my hands, before opening every morning, on breaks, in the middle of the night, trying to scrub imaginary bloodstains from hands that never got cleaner, only dryer. Edward, the town doctor, fitted me with new glasses to replace the scratched ones I had been wearing since the war, and even that failed to clear my vision. I tried to appear functional, for Cici's sake, just trying to be a cheerful father. I had all my crying jags outside at night so she wouldn't see. She didn't seem to remember a thing about where she came from. I was the one with the burden to bear, it wouldn't be fair to make her share it. But before I knew it, the dark times were drawing to a close. Kardia's Autumn air had indeed cleared my soul, and I stopped trying to cleanse my hands. I stood on the pier during the first Winter snowfall, pulling my scarf around my face and watching the movement of the water. I was going to be alright.

The next few years brought even more good things my way. I still had bad dreams sometimes, and I still hated thinking about what I had been through, but I had accepted those as part of who I was. I had an experience, and it had changed me somewhat. And isn't that what life is about, after all? The important thing was that the good far outweighed the bad. My adopted daughter was the greatest thing that had ever happened to me. She was so bright and curious, and fearless enough to make me almost constantly worry about her safety, but that's the price a parent pays for the pleasure of raising such an amazing kid. I eventually took on a librarian's assistant, which took a great deal of the burden from my shoulders. She's shy and tends towards daydreaming, but is extremely competent in her work with books. Fairly recently, a newcomer rolled in to town. One night, some anonymous Thursday that blends in with all the rest, he stopped by the bar and seemed surprised to see me there. I just laughed him off and replied…

"Even a librarian drinks from time to time."

Then I muttered something about how there's more work to be done than he might think. I didn't want to get in to all my personal issues at the time. About war, about nightmares, about killing and arrow wounds and infected lungs and abandoned children covered in wet ash. So yes, I am a librarian, and I do drink. But I drink to forget, even just for a little while. And then I drink until I remember even more clearly. I guess it's so I can feel relaxed enough to cry again, detached enough to deal with everything that's happened and reflect on how far I've come. And I'm feeling better by increments. Here in this place, surrounded by other people's problems and the people who belong to them, just another broken soul trying to find some comfort in the quiet din and the liquid that quiets the mind.

I crack my eyes open, still staring at a ceiling that isn't moving so much anymore. Neumann and Sabrina are kissing from across the table, the only place where they seem to trade any kind of affection. _I wonder when those fools are just going to admit it._ Mr. Would-Be Bard has since wandered back to Lady Ann's inn. I thought about Tori and how she must have to deal with him every day, poor kid. I slowly rise to my feet, and walk, rather unsteadily, to the door and leave for the night. Another Thursday evening spent. After exiting the bar, I feel suddenly ill. I walk to the beach, dig a hole in the sand with my shoe, kneel down, heave, and fill the hole in again. _I guess I overdid it tonight. Oh, well._ After emptying my stomach, I feel better. The world stopped moving and the fog in my head had cleared somewhat. And the air wafting off the ocean is almost bitterly cold. Maybe Winter is coming sooner than I thought. I walked out on to the pier to gaze upon the imagery that was now so familiar to me. The stars, the moon, the water. I feel at peace. And so, I walk home. The air smells like mown grass, like healthy soil, like apples, like the sea. I open the door to the library, my home. The smell is of old paper, the glue on the bindings, dust, aging wood. Another scent that feels like home. I breathe deeply, and climb the stairs to the bedroom and living area. Ceci is still sleeping where I'd left her. I stroke her hair and whisper "I'm home, goodnight, I love you." Then I change in to my nightclothes and lie down in bed. God, this mattress feels good. I place my glasses on my nightstand and turn on my side and let out a contented sigh. Then I'm out like a light.

**Lost in the Pages: An Epilogue of Sorts**

Light filters through my window, tinting the inside of my eyelids red. I crack my eyes open. A dull ache in the back of my head tells me that I went too far last night, but I'm not hung-over enough for it to affect my work today. I put on my glasses and squint at the clock on my nightstand. Two hours late for work. But I can hear Tori downstairs, holding the fort for me while I slept. I'd feel bad about last night, but I've overslept on my healthiest days, and she's been happy to fill in. I secretly think she likes it because it makes her feel important. I lie on my back with my arms draped over my chest and look at the dark wood of my ceiling. I let my eyes wander around the room until something on my nightstand catches my eye. I sit up to have a better look, and find a pile of colorful stones, weighing down a piece of paper. I gently drag it from under the jewels, which are shimmering in the sunlight, casting shards of color and tiny rainbows on the nearest wall. They settle with a pleasant clatter when the paper is removed. It's a small note, heart-shaped with childish script: "For you! I LOVE you, dad! Love, Ceci." Tears come to my eyes. Then I chuckle slightly in spite of myself. This is why I always tell myself never to wish that I hadn't gone to war in the first place. It was horrible, a true nightmare. But if I had never gone, I never would have been a father. I never would have been _her_ father. I we never would have met, and who know what could have happened to her if I hadn't come? And if I never lost my home, I never would have been displaced to Kardia, to my wonderful library home. The war and the loss of my village… All terrible scars on my heart. But some small part of me is always thinking that things have a way of working out. So for now, I think I'll go work in my library, take some of the load off of Tori and, most importantly, hug my kid. Before I stand to dress and start my day, I look out the window.

_Oh, the sky is so blue…_


End file.
